He pulled himself across the floor and began to eat, with every sign of enjoyment, Carrot’s tin of armour polish.
…
People streamed past Vimes as he strolled up the Street of Small Gods. Smoke rose into the air from the Plaza of Broken Moons.
The dragon squatted in the middle of it, on what remained of the coronation dais. It had a self-satisfied expression.
There was no sign of the throne, or of its occupant, although it was possible that complicated forensic examination of the small pile of charcoal in the wrecked and smouldering woodwork might offer some clue.
Vimes caught hold of an ornamental fountain to steady himself as the crowds stampeded by. Every street out of the plaza was packed with struggling bodies. Not noisy ones, Vimes noticed. People weren’t wasting their breath with screaming any more. There was just this solid, deadly determination to be somewhere else.
The dragon spread its wings and flapped them luxuriously. The people at the rear of the crowd took this as a signal to climb up the backs of the people in front of them and run for safety from head to head.
Within a few seconds the square was empty of all save the stupid and the terminally bewildered. Even the badly trampled were making a spirited crawl for the nearest exit.
Vimes looked around him. There seemed to be a lot of fallen flags, some of which were being eaten by an elderly goat which couldn’t believe its luck. He could distantly see Cut-me-own-Throat on his hands and knees, trying to restore the contents of his tray.
By Vimes’s side a small child waved a flag hesitantly and shouted “Hurrah”.
Then everything went quiet.
Vimes bent down.
“I think you should be going home,” he said.
The child squinted up at him.
“Are you a Watch man?” it said.
“No,” said Vimes. “And yes.”
“What happened to the king, Watch man?”
“Er. I think he’s gone off for a rest,” said Vimes.
“My auntie said I shouldn’t talk to Watch men,” said the child.
“Do you think it might be a good idea to go home and tell her how obedient you’ve been, then?” said Vimes.
“My auntie said, if I was naughty, she’d put me on the roof and call the dragon,” said the child, conversationally. “My auntie said it eats you all up starting with the legs, so’s you can see what’s happening.”
“Why don’t you go home and tell your auntie she’s acting in the best traditions of Ankh-Morpork child-rearing?” said Vimes. “Go on. Run along.”
“It crunches up all your bones,” said the child happily. “And when it gets to your head, it-”
“Look, it’s up there!” shouted Vimes. “The great big dragon that crunches you up! Now go home!”
The child looked up at the thing perched on the crippled dais.
“I haven’t seen it crunch anyone yet,” it complained.
“Push off or you’ll feel the back of my hand,” said Vimes.
This seemed to fit the bill. The child nodded understandingly.
“Right. Can I shout hurrah again?”
“If you like,” said Vimes.
“Hurrah.”
So much for community policing, Vimes thought. He peered out from behind the fountain again.
A voice immediately above him rumbled, “Say what you like, I still swear it’s a magnificent specimen.”
Vimes’s gaze travelled upwards until it crested the edge of the fountain’s top bowl.
“Have you noticed,” said Sybil Ramkin, hauling herself upright by a piece of eroded statuary and dropping down in front of him, “how every time we meet, a dragon turns up?” She gave him an arch smile. “It’s a bit like having your own tune. Or something.”
“It’s just sitting there,” said Vimes hurriedly. “Just looking around. As if it’s waiting for something to happen.”
The dragon blinked with Jurassic patience.
The roads off the square were packed with people. That’s the Ankh-Morpork instinct, Vimes thought. Run away, and then stop and see if anything interesting is going to happen to other people.
There was a movement in the wreckage near the dragon’s front talon, and the High Priest of Blind Io staggered to his feet, dust and splinters cascading from his robes. He was still holding the ersatz crown in one hand.
Vimes watched the old man look upwards into a couple of glowing red eyes a few feet away.
“Can dragons read minds?” whispered Vimes.
“I’m sure mine understand every word I say,” hissed Lady Ramkin. “Oh, no! The silly old fool is giving it the crown!”
“But isn’t that a smart move?” said Vimes. “Dragons like gold. It’s like throwing a stick for a dog, isn’t it?”
“Oh dear,” said Sybil Ramkin. “It might not, you know. Dragons have such sensitive mouths.”
The great dragon blinked at the tiny circle of gold.
Then, with extreme delicacy, it extended one metre-long claw and hooked the thing out of the priest’s trembling fingers.
“What d’you mean, sensitive?” said Vimes, watching the claw travel slowly towards the long, horse-like face.
“A really incredible sense of taste. They’re so, well, chemically orientated.”
“You mean it can probably taste gold?” whispered Vimes, watching the crown being carefully licked.
“Oh, certainly. And smell it.”
Vimes wondered what the chances were of the crown being made of gold. Not high, he decided. Gold foil over copper, perhaps. Enough to fool human beings. And then he wondered what someone’s reaction would be if they were offered sugar which turned out, once you’d put three spoonfuls in your coffee, to be salt.
The dragon removed the claw from its mouth in one graceful movement and caught the high priest, who was just sneaking away, a blow which knocked him high into the air. When he was screaming at the top of the arc the great mouth came around and-“Gosh!” said Lady Ramkin.
There was a groan from the watchers.
“The temperature of the thing!” said Vines. “I mean, nothing left! Just a wisp of smoke!”
There was another movement in the rubble. Another figure pulled itself upright and leaned dazedly against a broken spar.
It was Lupine Wonse, under a coating of soot.
Vimes watched him look up into a pair of nostrils the size of drain-covers.
Wonse broke into a run. Vimes wondered what it felt like, running away from something like that, expecting any minute your backbone to reach, very briefly, a temperature somewhere beyond the vaporisation point of iron. He could guess.
Wonse made it halfway across the square before the dragon darted forward with surprising agility for such a bulk and snatched him up. The talon swept on upward until the struggling figure was being held a few feet from the dragon’s face.
It appeared to examine him for some time, turning him this way and that. Then, moving on its three free legs and flapping its wings occasionally to help with its balance, it trotted away across the plaza and headed towards the-what once had been the Patrician’s palace. To what once had been the king’s palace, too.
It ignored the frightened spectators silently pressing themselves against the walls. The arched gateway was shouldered aside with depressing ease. The doors themselves, tall and iron-bound and solid, lasted a surprising ten seconds before collapsing into a heap of glowing ash.
The dragon stepped through.
Lady Ramkin turned in astonishment. Vimes had started to laugh.
There was a manic edge to it and there were tears in his eyes, but it was still laughter. He laughed and laughed until he slid gently down the edge of the fountain, his legs splaying out in front of him.
“Hooray, hooray, hooray!” he giggled, almost choking.
“What on earth d’you mean?” Lady Ramkin demanded.
“Put out more flags! Blow the cymbals, roast the tocsin! We’ve crowned it! We’ve got a king after all! What ho!”
“Have you been drinking?” she snapped.
“Not yet!” sniggered Vimes. “Not yet! But I will be!”
He laughed on, knowing that when he stopped black depression was going to drop on him like a lead souffle. But he could see the future stretching out ahead of them . . .
. . . after all, it was definitely noble. And it didn’t carry money, and it couldn’t answer back. It could certainly do something for the inner cities, too. Like torching them to the bedrock.
We’ll really do it, he thought. That’s the Ankh-Morpork way. If you can’t beat it or corrupt it, you pretend it was your idea in the first place.
Vivat Draco.
He became aware that the small child had wandered up again. It waved its flag gently at him and said, “Can I shout hurrah again now?”
“Why not?” said Vimes. “Everyone else will.”
From the palace came the muffled sounds of complicated destruction . . .
…
Errol pulled a broomstick across the floor with his mouth and, whimpering with effort, hauled it upright. After a lot more whimpering and several false starts he managed to winkle the end of it between the wall and the big jar of lamp oil.